Page 213 - THE HOUND OF BASKERVILLE

The Hound of the Baskervilles

‘There, I think.’ I pointed into the darkness.
‘No, there!’
Again the agonized cry swept through the silent night,
louder and much nearer than ever. And a new sound

mingled with it, a deep, muttered rumble, musical and yet
menacing, rising and falling like the low, constant murmur
of the sea.
‘The hound!’ cried Holmes. ‘Come, Watson, come!
Great heavens, if we are too late!’
He had started running swiftly over the moor, and I
had followed at his heels. But now from somewhere
among the broken ground immediately in front of us there
came one last despairing yell, and then a dull, heavy thud.
We halted and listened. Not another sound broke the
heavy silence of the windless night.
I saw Holmes put his hand to his forehead like a man
distracted. He stamped his feet upon the ground.
‘He has beaten us, Watson. We are too late.’
‘No, no, surely not!’
‘Fool that I was to hold my hand. And you, Watson,
see what comes of abandoning your charge! But, by
Heaven, if the worst has happened, we’ll avenge him!’
Blindly we ran through the gloom, blundering against
boulders, forcing our way through gorse bushes, panting

212 of 279